Broken
by ClockworkAssassin
Summary: [AC Syndicate] While investigating Jacob's recent strange behavior, Henry discovers the truth about his childhood. Abused!Jacob, Abusive!Ethan
1. Henry

_A/N: Obvious trigger warning for scenes of physical/emotional abuse - it doesn't get graphic or sexual, but it might still be uncomfortable if you're sensitive to this sort of thing, so I'm sticking a little content warning here just in case. Also some cursing and violence and innuendos, but that's basically expected from this series at this point._

_Hope you guys enjoy - I don't plan on going any further with this storyline right now, but I might write a continuation if anyone has any interest._

* * *

It was common knowledge among the Rooks that Jacob Frye, the Master Assassin and the leader of the streets, did not like to be touched. Any time someone tried to drape their arm around his shoulders, slap him on the back, or pat his shoulder, he would flinch away like they'd touched him with a hot poker. "Don't do that," he'd say, and the offending Rook would sheepishly mumble an apology.

He also didn't like doctors, and would fiercely resist going no matter how injured he was. "They're good-for-nothing hacks," he snapped, when Henry tried to gently coax him into visiting the doctor to get a cut looked at. "I don't need anyone poking and prodding me and trying to get me into one of those gowns."

"But what if that cut gets infected?" Henry persisted. A few days ago Jacob had taken a nasty cut across the back from a Blighter's knife, and was being extremely casual about what might possibly turn into a fatal wound; it was long and deep, and Henry worried that if he didn't see a doctor soon, it might get much worse. "You really need to go, Jacob. Just this once."

"No," Jacob said, stubbornly. "Didn't you hear me? I said I'm fine."

"Please?" Henry sighed, knowing that Evie would chew him out if he didn't convince Jacob to go. "I'll buy you a beer afterwards, and we can go to all the fight clubs and taverns you want."

"Try again."

"Okay then." Henry folded his arms, staring the Assassin down. "How about in exchange for letting the doctor stitch you up, I don't tell Evie you snuck off to that gambling den again yesterday."

Jacob eyed him for a moment, weighing his options; then, to Henry's relief, he heaved a deep sigh. "Fine," he said, grudgingly. "But you don't get to be in the room."

"Fair enough," Henry said.

And that was how he found himself waiting outside as the doctor tried to convince Jacob to take his shirt off so he could dress the wound. "Just sew me up and let me go," Jacob said, stubbornly. "You can do that, can't you?"

"This wound needs bandages and salves, not stitches," the doctor said. "Now will you kindly -"

"No!" Jacob said, his voice rising. "Don't _touch _me!"

Henry sighed, put down his newspaper, and entered the examining room. Jacob was sitting up on the operating table, angrily slapping the doctor's hands away as the man attemped to undo his shirt buttons. When he saw Henry, he seethed, "Tell him to just stitch it up so I can get back to work, will you?"

"He needs to take care of it," Henry said, patiently. "You agreed to let him. So let him do his job, and then we can go home."

Jacob gritted his teeth, then relented, and started to worm his arms out of his sleeves. "Give a man some privacy, will you?"

"I'll wait outside." Henry retreated back into the hallway, but he couldn't help wondering why Jacob was so insistent on such a strange detail. Why would he be so uncomfortable with someone seeing him with his shirt off?

He got his answer a few seconds later, when he heard the doctor inhale sharply. "What happened to you?" the man asked, sounding horrified. "Your back -"

"Just clean me up," Jacob said, his voice flat. "I didn't ask you for commentary."

There was silence for a while, presumably as the doctor tended his wounds; but Henry's curiosity was killing him. What on earth was Jacob hiding? Had he gotten some horrible scar or a bad tattoo, and was too afraid to tell anyone?

Jacob emerged from the operating room a few minutes later, his expression stone. "There," he said, as Henry rose from his chair and folded up his newspaper. "I got some stitches. Are you happy now?"

"What did that doctor see?" Henry asked; he couldn't help but pry. "Do you -"

"Will you _fuck off?" _Jacob burst. "I don't need you poking me either, Greenie!"

"Sorry," Henry said hastily. "It's just - if you're injured -"

"I said I'm _fine!"_ Jacob stormed out, and Henry gazed after him, bewildered; the man had never acted so strangely around him before. What was going on with him?

He headed back to the train, still pondering the mystery, and found Evie sitting cross-legged in a chair, balancing a book of Assassin history on her knees. "Evie," he said, and she glanced up to show she was listening. "What's on Jacob's back that he's so determined not to talk about?"

Evie slowly looked up from her book, and studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she sighed and closed the book. "I never told you about Father," she said. "Did I?"

"No," Henry said, uncertainly. "It never came up."

"Well, let me tell you, then." She closed her eyes. "Our father -"

"Talking about Father, are we?" Jacob emerged from the train bathroom, and both of them jumped.

"Oh," Henry stuttered. "Er - I was just curious - I didn't mean to pry -"

"It's fine." Jacob sat down and took off his top hat, hanging it on a hook on the wall; he acted calm and collected, trying to project his usual suave self, but even from this distance Henry could see that his hands were shaking. "You want to hear the story? I'll tell it."

"Jacob," Evie said, softly. "You don't have to."

"I want to." Jacob met Henry's eyes, looking as determined as Henry had ever seen him. "He's dead now. What's the point of not talking about it anymore?"

Henry sat down, sensing that he was about to hear a long story. "Tell me," he said. "I'm listening."

Jacob took a slow breath. "We'll start at the beginning," he said. "Evie and I had just turned five..."

* * *

Jacob remembered the first time his father had hit him. It had crystallized in his mind and stuck there, refusing to go away, and each time he came back to it he found it as clear and vivid as if it had happened yesterday. He remembered it because it was the one day that had started it all - the one moment that had changed the trajectory of his life and shattered every illusion of his childhood. It was the moment that he had realized just how much his father hated him.

He'd been five years old at the time, and training hard alongside his sister; already his father had set them both on the path of Assassins, and was insisting they practice and train every single day. He was struggling to slowly cross the makeshift balance beam in their backyard, the one his father had carelessly sawn out of an old board and nailed to some posts, and out of the corner of his eye he could see Evie wavering on a beam of her own. He turned just in time to see her fall off the board and hit the ground hard on her back, getting splattered with mud and dirt; her lip quivered as their father barked from the porch, "Evie! What the hell was that?"

Jacob looked over his shoulder, still precariously balancing on his beam, as Ethan Frye threw down his newspaper, descended from the porch and stalked across the backyard like a malevolent specter. He looked furious, and Jacob smirked to himself, knowing that Evie was about to receive a scolding - he liked when it was her getting in trouble for a change.

But Ethan didn't start shouting, or ground her, or use his Disappointed Father Voice. Instead, in one swift motion he seized Evie by the neck of her shirt and hoisted her into the air like a rag doll; she started crying, kicking at his arms to try and get free, as he shouted into her face, "You are _weak! _Do you hear me? You're weak and you'll never amount to a fucking thing, not while your footwork looks like _that! _Now get back up and try again!"

Jacob's heart stopped. His father had never acted like this before. What was he doing?

"Don't you fucking cry in front of me," Ethan snarled, as Evie sniffled and tried valiantly to break free of his iron grip. "You're even more pathetic than your useless brother. Why should a little crybaby like you ever get to be an Assassin?"

"Stop it," Jacob said. He didn't know what gave him the courage to speak up, but some part of his little heart had just swelled with innate Assassin bravery, and the urge to defend his sister was instinctual - he didn't even have to think about it. "It was just an accident. Don't hurt her."

"Why shouldn't I?" Ethan shook Evie for emphasis, making her sob harder. "She's almost as stupid as you are. Maybe I'll beat her head in and show you."

Jacob didn't think. His feet moved entirely of their own accord as he lunged at his own father, grabbing his arm as he lifted it with his hand tightened into a fist. "Don't hurt her," he begged, desperately; and, unable to hold it in any longer, he started to sob. His father had never spoken like this to either of them, not even when they'd broken the rules, coordinated a complex scheme to swipe the cookies from the cookie jar, or snuck out to the butterfly house and violated their curfew. Something was wrong. He could smell the answer on his father's clothes, and on his breath, but he was too young to recognize the scent of alcohol.

Ethan slowly turned to him, eyes burning, and in that moment Jacob realized he had made a terrible mistake.

In a flash his hand, steeled from decades of Assassin training, had seized Jacob's collar and yanked him close, and he let go of Evie carelessly as he rounded on his son, leaving her crying in the dirt. His eyes drilled into Jacob's as he studied him, as one might study an interesting insect. "You think you can talk back to me?" he whispered; his breath stank of beer. "The little ungrateful shit who killed my wife?"

"I didn't do anything," Jacob sniffled. "You were going to hurt Evie."

"She deserves it. You both do, for taking her away from me." His grip tightened on Jacob's collar. "Maybe I'll hurt you instead."

"Daddy, you're scaring us," Evie said, her voice high and frightened. "Let him go."

"Don't hurt me," Jacob pleaded.

The blow to his face was hard and stinging, and he choked back a sob as the left side of his face sang with pain from the impact; his father smiled, seeming pleased with the reaction. "You little shits need to be hit more," he said. "I should have done that much sooner."

"Stop it," Evie sobbed.

He hit Jacob again, harder this time; the pain split through his jaw like a bad toothache, and Jacob struggled and clawed at his father's grip on his throat as Ethan reared back for a third blow. The punch hit him with such blinding force that it made his vision spin with stars, and he felt something in his nose break with a stab of sickening pain; he screamed, and Ethan laughed with delight.

"Serves you right," he hissed into Jacob's face. "I hope that hurts in the morning."

He threw Jacob hard to the ground, and Jacob curled up into a ball, crying, as his father stalked off into the house and slammed the door, leaving them both lying helpless and frightened in the dirt. They had no idea why a malicious ghost had possessed their father, some unknown force that had whipped up his brewing anger into sudden, terrifying violence. He had never hurt either of them like this before.

"Jacob?" Evie ventured at last; her voice was audibly shaky. "Are you okay?"

Jacob wiped his face on his sleeve; it came away bloody, and his broken nose pounded with pain. "He hit me," he said, still not really believing it; somehow he thought he would wake up at any moment. But it hurt too much to be a dream.

Evie struggled to her feet, brushing mud off her clothes, and knelt down beside him. She gingerly touched his face, and Jacob saw the fear and guilt in her eyes. "I made him mad," she said. "It's my fault. I should have been better."

"It wasn't your fault," Jacob said automatically, trying to reassure her; somehow he knew this to be true. "Something else was making him mad. It wasn't us."

"Should we talk to him?" Evie said, uncertainly. "Will that make him be okay again?"

"I don't know." Jacob touched the bruises on his face; he knew he would have a black eye in the morning. "I don't want him to hit you. I think we should hide."

"Okay," she said, and Jacob heard how scared she was. "Can we hide in your room?"

In response, Jacob reached out and took her hand. She clung to him for comfort as he walked her slowly up the porch steps and into the house; both of them moved as silently as they could, for fear of rousing their father's anger again, and stepped carefully over the creaky floorboards and misplaced toys, trying not to make a sound. "Let's pretend we're Assassins," Jacob whispered, and Evie obeyed, soundless and quiet as a mouse.

They made their slow, silent way up the stairs and into Jacob's room, and he shut the door and sat with Evie on the floor, taking out some of his toys to try and distract them; they played Assassins-and-Templars and bobbies-and-robbers with his tin soldiers and horses until the sun went down, but all the while they kept shooting nervous looks at the door, as though worried that their father might burst through it at any moment.

Halfway through their third game, there was a soft knock on the door, and both of them froze, terrified. "Hey, kiddos," their father said from the other side; he sounded apologetic. "Can I come in?"

They exchanged glances. Then, cautiously, Evie rose and set down her toys, moving slowly to the door; Jacob watched tensely as she opened it, and their father entered the room. He seemed much calmer than before, and Jacob wondered if the ghost had gone away.

"Listen," he said, and knelt down and took out his handkerchief; Jacob sat perfectly still, rooted to the spot with fear, as his father dabbed blood off his face. "I had too many grown-up drinks and got thinking about your mommy again, and I got mad. I'm sorry. It won't happen again, okay?"

"You hurt him really bad," Evie said, in a very small voice.

"I know." Ethan reached to brush Jacob's hair out of his eyes, but Jacob flinched away, and he could swear that sparked a glint of fury in his father's eyes. But it was quickly replaced by that gentle, apologetic look. "I didn't mean to hurt you, kiddo. It was an accident. You have to promise not to tell anyone I did that, okay?"

"Are you mad?" Jacob ventured.

"No, not anymore. Daddy's not mad at you." His father touched his nose. "We'll get this fixed up tomorrow, okay? I'll take you to the doctor."

"You hurt him," Evie said. "Why did you do that?"

Their father blew out a frustrated breath. "Look, I know I fucked up. I'm trying to apologize. Can't you two take a damn apology? I won't do it again."

They both were silent.

"Come on," he said, his voice rising again. "I said I was sorry. You two had better not tell anyone about this, understand? I'll hurt you worse if you do."

Jacob said nothing, just looked at his father, and suddenly realized he had never truly known him before.

"Look," his father said, clearly struggling to control his anger. "Just say you forgive your papa, and we can let this all go, okay? No more hitting."

"Will you hurt Evie?" Jacob said, uncertainly.

"No. I promise I won't hurt either of you again. Now will you accept my apology?"

The twins exchanged wary looks. "Okay," Evie said, hesitantly. "We forgive you."

"Good." Their father rose, balling up his bloody handkerchief and tossing it into a trash bin. "Now play with your toys. Daddy's going to take a nap."

He left, and they stared after him, then looked at each other. A kind of silent, mutual understanding passed between them as they realized they would have to be very careful around their father from now on - especially when he was on his "grown-up drinks."

It was not the last time Jacob's father would hit him. But looking back, it was the first time that his trust of his father was irrevocably broken - and, by extension, his trust of everyone else. So much of the trauma of his childhood had stemmed from that one single moment, that fateful crossing of probabilities when they'd acted out a bit too many times and his father had drunk a little too much and the end result was tears, a broken nose, and his first scar, a tiny white line on the bridge of his nose. From then on, his life was never the same.

* * *

"He hit you?" Henry asked, disbelievingly. He looked at Evie for confirmation, and Evie nodded once. "And then he tried to apologize?"

"He acted like it was no big deal," Evie said. "But obviously it was, and we were too young to understand why he did it - we didn't know he was getting drunk and coming home boozed up and ready to fight. And it wouldn't be the last time."

"Wow." Henry sat back slowly, processing the news. "I always looked up to your father. My own father told me stories about him, about what a great and mighty Assassin he was. But no one ever told me Ethan was abusive."

"It's not something we talk about a lot," Evie admitted. "We didn't want to spread it around at first. After he died, we tried to keep his memory clean. We tried to just forget about it and move on." She looked at Jacob, who was staring at the floor, not meeting Henry's eyes. "But that was only the first time."

"What happened after that?" Henry asked, cautiously; he could tell that reliving all of this was making Jacob anxious, although the man would never admit it. "You don't have to tell me, if you don't want to -"

"I'm fine." Jacob steadied himself. "The next time was when we met George."

* * *

The first real beating came a few weeks later, when George came to visit. The twins had been avoiding their father ever since the incident in the backyard, frightened of incurring his wrath if they so much as stepped a toe out of line, but that only seemed to make Ethan angrier; he had grown cold and sarcastic around them rather than kind and loving, and he kept hiding their toys and conveniently "forgetting" to give them dinner, sitting upstairs in his room to drink and curse while his children hid in their rooms and tried to reassure each other that he would get better soon. Surely he was just having a bad week, and it would all pass soon, and they would have their happy, smiling father back again. The father who loved them.

But he never got better. And every once in a while, he would get frustrated if Jacob talked back to him or looked at him funny or walked in front of his field of vision, and would lash out in a frothing rage, leaving Jacob crying in the corner with a black eye or a bruised neck. Other times he would try to hit Evie, but Jacob always rushed in the way and grabbed his arm, distracting him long enough for Evie to escape - it didn't matter how much Ethan beat him afterwards, as long as Evie was safe. But despite how horrible their home life had become, the punches and insults never escalated any further, and while Jacob had begun to fear these sudden, violent assaults and shy away any time his father came near him, he was desperately hoping that his father would never hurt him any worse than a bruise or two.

Then George Westhouse came over for dinner.

Ethan didn't hit Jacob at all for the few days beforehand, perhaps making sure he wouldn't have any suspicious bruises; but Jacob still had a cut under his eye from when Ethan had hit his head against the bathroom wall, and when his father saw, he ground his teeth and put a bandage over it, then seized a fistful of Jacob's hair to force him to look him in the eyes. "Don't you say a fucking word to George," he snarled, and Jacob nodded hastily, terrified of disobeying him. "You understand? One word out of your sorry mouth and I'll knock your fucking teeth out when he leaves."

"I won't tell," Jacob stuttered. "I promise."

"Good." Ethan let go of him and stormed out to wait for the doorbell.

They had heard a lot about George. He was a member of the British Assassins and friend of their father's, and grew up working that old mill down by the river; Ethan forced the children to come downstairs and introduce themselves when he arrived, and they nervously said hello, shooting fearful looks at their father to make sure they were doing it right. "I'm Evie," Evie said, clutching Jacob's hand tightly for support. "This is my brother, Jacob."

George, for his part, smiled warmly back at them. "Hello, little Fryes," he said. "It's very nice to meet you. I hope you'll be kind enough to join me for dinner?"

"Okay," Evie said uncertainly, and held Jacob's hand tightly under the table as Ethan said grace; they were both afraid of sparking one of their father's seemingly random bursts of rage if they weren't on their best behavior. But Ethan seemed perfectly calm and serene, and chatted amiably with George as they ate their food. Jacob was served a noticeably smaller portion than everyone else, and picked grudgingly at his food as the two Assassins discussed the latest news in Crawley and the increasingly depressing reports from London.

"The city's being overrun by Templars," George said, dabbing at his face with a napkin. "If the council doesn't act, it'll be completely conquered in the next few years. We need to convince them."

"They've never cared about London before," Ethan said, dismissively. "What can we say to convince them now? Just forget it."

Eventually, to the twins' mixed relief and concern, Ethan went upstairs to have one of his naps, leaving them alone with the Assassin. George smiled gently at the two nervous Fryes. "What do you two like to do?" he asked.

They exchanged anxious looks; both of them had no idea if this man would turn into a raging monster out of nowhere, just as their father had done. "We like checkers," Evie said at length, hesitantly.

"Okay then," George said, cheerfully. He looked around until he spotted their chessboard on the table, and sat down and began taking out the pieces, arranging them neatly into the starting positions. "Let's play some checkers, shall we?"

They sat in the parlor and played checkers next to the fireplace, and all the while Jacob watched George warily and tried to read his intentions. George deliberately played horribly, and acted shocked when Evie and Jacob beat him soundly. "Alas," he declared, "I am slain."

Evie giggled, and Jacob looked at her, surprised; it was the first time she had laughed in a while. "You lose," she teased. "We win."

"Yes, I'm sure you're both very proud of yourselves." Playfully, George reached out to ruffle Jacob's hair - and the terrified Jacob flinched violently away, nearly falling out of his chair. George stared, surprised, and lowered his hand. "Hey, it's all right," he said. "Did I scare you?"

Jacob caught his breath, but his heart was still hammering violently. The man had moved too fast, and he'd acted out of instinct; he was too accustomed to a raised hand meaning his jaw was about to be dislocated.

George, for his part, looked concerned. He gently reached out to touch Jacob's cheek, stroking the little bandage there; and for the first time his voice carried a hint of suspicion. "Where did this come from?"

Jacob remembered his father's warning, and tried to make his voice steady, even though he was trembling so badly he could barely breathe. "Fell in the bathroom," he said.

"Hmm." George took his hand away, but watched him thoughtfully.

Evie, meanwhile, was squirming nervously in her chair; clearly she remembered their father's words, too. "Jacob's really clumsy," she stammered out. "He falls a lot."

"Does he now." George squinted. "How often does this happen, Jacob?"

"I don't know," Jacob stuttered; his heart was racing. Why was the man asking so many questions?

George gazed at him, clearly worried, as Ethan descended the stairs; hearing him enter, both Jacob and Evie stiffened and sat at attention as he walked into the room, giving them a cursory look before nodding at George. "You should go before you're late for the next engagement," he said. "You have an appointment at the town hall, do you not?"

"I do," George said, and with one last concerned look at Jacob he rose from his chair. "Thank you very much for the hospitality. Do you mind if I stay for a few days the next time I visit? There's only one hotel in this town, and it's dreadful."

"Of course I don't mind," Ethan said, and showed him the door as his children hovered uncertainly in his wake, wishing that George would stay here and protect them.

After George had left, the Frye twins braced themselves for the inevitable fit of rage, but instead their father stomped upstairs with his beer in hand, grumbling. The children looked at each other warily as they heard the bedroom door slam shut; were they safe for the night?

They tentatively ascended the stairs, staying as quiet as possible, Evie keeping a tight grip on Jacob's hand - and for one moment he thought they were really, truly safe. But then he accidentally stepped on a loud floorboard, and the solemn _creak _echoed around the silent house like a gunshot; Jacob automatically grabbed Evie, protecting her with his body, as his father's voice bellowed from upstairs, "Okay, you little shits, come here!"

"Hurry," Jacob whispered, and he and Evie sprinted into his bedroom at top speed; he slammed the door and hustled her over to the closet as their father's pounding footsteps came near the door. "You hide in here," he told her, and Evie obeyed, nestling fearfully into the corner of the closet; he wrapped her hastily in blankets and his old shirts, to make sure his father wouldn't see her. Her wide eyes peeked out from under one of his sweaters, watching him, as he closed the doors on her and shut her in the darkness.

"Don't make a sound," he whispered to her, as his father furiously rattled the doorknob. "Whatever you hear. You have to stay in there."

Evie's eyes stared back at him from the shadows, wide with fear.

A second later his father threw open the door with a loud _bang, _and Jacob turned to face him, trying to muster all of his courage; he knew the truth even at that young age. If he let his father hurt him, then he wouldn't hurt Evie. It was as simple as that. He would protect her - it was just what twins did.

"Where's Evie?" Ethan demanded, advancing on Jacob as the boy bravely stood his ground. "What did you do with her?"

"I'm not scared of you," Jacob said; his voice quivered, but he tried his best to sound strong, like an Assassin. "You're not going to find her."

Ethan seized him by the neck and slammed him against the wall, and Jacob coughed and choked as his father slowly squeezed the life out of him, his fingers digging hard enough into his throat to bruise. "You want to play games?" he hissed into Jacob's face. "Okay, you little shit. Let's play some games."

He would not cry, Jacob told himself. He was a man, and men didn't cry. He told himself this as his father reared back his fist for a fresh beating, eyes wild with drunken rage; it would be over soon, it would all be over soon, and all that mattered was that Evie was safe.

His father beat him senseless, worse than ever before. He battered him everywhere - his chest, his stomach, his face, his collarbone, hard enough that the pain seared through him in waves and Jacob swore he heard his ribs crack, but had to bite back tears, knowing that it would get worse if he cried. But the tears finally came when Ethan seized him by the hair and slammed his head against the wall, making stars dance in front of his eyes; it made a sharp, agonizing pain lance through his head, and when he started to sob his father shook him violently by the hair. "Are you crying?" he snarled, as Jacob cried out in pain. "You little weak boy, you're even worse than your fucking sister, you know that? I'll give you something to cry about!"

And then they heard the doorbell ring downstairs.

Ethan froze like a deer in headlights, his hand still fisted in Jacob's hair. He stared at the bedroom door for one moment, then swore and dropped Jacob like a sack of potatoes, leaving him curled up and shaking on the floor as he stalked downstairs to answer it. In the silence, Jacob could hear Evie crying weakly in the closet. He suddenly realized she had seen the whole thing.

_I should have told her to close her eyes,_ he thought dully. His whole body pounded with pain, a white-hot agony from all the bruises and broken bones his father had left him; he dug his fingers into the floorboards and crawled slowly across the floor to the closet, and Evie opened the door for him, pulling him inside and shutting it tightly to conceal them both.

They huddled together in the darkness like frightened animals, staying close to each other for comfort, and listened to the front door open downstairs. Ethan's voice said: "Oh, hello George."

"Sorry to bother you," George's voice said. "I was just wondering if I left something here - I can't seem to find my pocketwatch."

"Of course, come right in."

They chatted amiably downstairs as Jacob and Evie clung to each other in the safety of the closet, listening to the soft _plip-plip _of Jacob's blood dripping onto the floorboards.

* * *

Jacob had his face in his hands. Evie gently reached out and touched his shoulder, a gesture of comfort. "It's okay," she said. "I know it's hard to talk about."

"What the hell was wrong with him?" Henry wondered aloud, unsure what horrified him more: the fact that this had happened, or that no one had ever told him about it. How often had he heard glowing stories of Ethan Frye's kindness and bravery and honor, without ever mentioning the fact that he had beaten his own children senseless? "Jacob, I am so sorry."

"It's fine," Jacob muttered. "It was a long time ago." He looked around for an ale; Henry hastily poured him a glass, and he took a long swig as Evie massaged his back.

"You can stop now," she said. "I can take it from here."

"No, no." Jacob wiped his mouth on his sleeve and set the glass down. "I've started this, I might as well finish it."

* * *

From then on the beatings came every day. It became part of Jacob's daily routine to wake up early and rush into his sister's room, hiding her in the closet or under the bed before his father woke up and stormed into the room, already drunk and ready for a fight.

"Where's Evie?" he would demand, every morning.

And every morning Jacob would respond, "I don't know."

Upon which Ethan would get angry and Jacob would get battered until he cried, which was always his father's cue to hit him harder, as punishment for being soft. Sometimes, if Jacob was unlucky and his father was in a truly nasty mood, he would belt him, and on those rare, horrible occasions when Ethan was having a very bad morning, he would pick up the fireplace poker and use that instead, a sickeningly painful beating which always left Jacob's back and legs a patchwork of green and purple bruises. The only comfort was that he no longer went for Jacob's face - knowing that people would ask too many questions if Jacob went outside with a black eye or a bruised jaw. Instead, he made Jacob wear long sleeves and pants every day, even when it was hot outside, and threatened to beat him harder if he told anyone what went on in their house. Jacob was too afraid to disobey.

It was soon normal for them to hide upstairs whenever guests came over, and Ethan always made excuses - "they've got the flu," he explained to a British nobleman once, when he accidentally left Jacob with a nasty cut down his face and didn't want to have to explain himself to the neighbors. "They were roughhousing last night," he said another time to the gardener, when Jacob tiptoed downstairs with finger marks on his neck that not even a scarf could hide.

The children knew they could never tell anyone, even if they wanted to. No one would believe them - everyone respected Ethan Frye, the famous Assassin, and surely they wouldn't believe that he was capable of this. There was only one adult in their lives who might be convinced, one person who might believe them if they told him what was really going on behind closed doors.

But George must have asked Ethan some questions the night he came over for his pocketwatch, because Ethan didn't let him come over anymore.

And so they were stuck here with their father, waiting desperately for some kind of escape. The torture went on for five long years, and it only got worse as Jacob got older and his father thought of ever more creative ways to hurt him; he didn't even bother trying to go for Evie anymore, seemingly content with ruthlessly punishing his son, the one whose birth had caused his wife's death. And that, in some convoluted way that only Ethan Frye could understand, made it Jacob's fault.

And sometimes Jacob wondered how much longer he would have been subjected to the torment if their savior hadn't arrived unexpectedly on their doorstep a few days after their tenth birthday, completely out of the blue.

Ethan had gone out on an Assassin mission the night before. It was supposed to have been an easy job, but he came back the next night unconscious, bloody and covered in bandages - with none other than George carrying him over his shoulder into the house.

"Kids?" George called, as he struggled to lift Ethan up the stairs; Jacob and Evie rushed to help, too relieved that he was here to care why. They helped him slowly carry Ethan upstairs and into his bedroom, where George laid him carefully down and covered him in blankets.

"He got stabbed by a Templar," he explained, as Jacob and Evie looked on with wide eyes. "Don't worry, he'll be fine. He should wake up healthy as a horse tomorrow, as long as the bleeding stops soon."

_I hope he dies, _Jacob thought bitterly; his father had gone for the fireplace poker yesterday, and his back still smarted with pain. But he said nothing as George finished his ministrations and smiled gently at the children.

"Do you two need some help getting ready for bed?" he asked. "I'll stay here and take care of you until your father is better. I'll be here as long as you need me."

"Can you help us brush our teeth?" Evie asked, giving Jacob a hopeful look. Jacob stared nervously back, not fully ready to trust this man yet; he didn't know if George had a temper, or also indulged in "grown-up juice." What if he hit them, too?

But George was nothing but gentle as he helped the children brush their teeth, get their pajamas on and tucked them into bed. "Do you two still like stories?" he asked, as he fluffed Evie's pillow for her; Jacob looked on warily, to make sure he wouldn't hurt her. "Or are you too old for that?"

"No, we like stories," Evie said earnestly. "Tell one."

"Oh, all right." He looked at her bookshelf, and picked out a book. "How's this one?"

"That's perfect." Evie looked at Jacob. "Can Jacob listen, too?"

George's face softened. "Of course he can," he said, and sat down on the bed and patted the blankets beside him. "Come over here, Jacob."

Jacob tentatively climbed up onto the bed, and the twins settled down by George, one on either side of him; Jacob stayed as far away from him as possible, still distrustful, but Evie snuggled up to George's side, resting against him as he turned the book back to the beginning and started to read to them. Their father began to snore around the third page, and Jacob stiffened instinctually, terrified; Evie reached out and took his hand. As George spoke, he kept looking thoughtfully at Jacob, with something like worry in his eyes.

"It's okay," he said at last, when Jacob subtly scooted a little further away from him. "You can come closer."

Jacob quivered in fear. George softly reached out and touched his hair, pushing a stray lock behind his ear.

"You're afraid of something, aren't you?" he said, looking between them. "You always look so afraid. What is it? Is somebody hurting you?"

"Yes," Evie said.

"Evie," Jacob said, fearfully. "Don't tell him."

"Tell me what?" George kept stroking Jacob's hair, watching the two of them with worry in his eyes. "You're both always so frightened, no matter when I see you. Who hurts you? You can tell me."

"Dad hits Jacob," Evie said, before Jacob could stop her. "He hurts him when he gets mad. He tries to hurt me, too, but Jacob never lets him."

George stared at her for a long moment, evidently speechless, processing this information; and then he slowly closed his eyes, and Evie realized he was trying not to cry. And in that moment, she could almost read the single, crushing thought in his mind: _I should have seen it sooner. _"Little Fryes," he murmured. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"He said he would hurt Jacob worse if we told," Evie said, in a small voice.

"How often does this happen?"

"Every day," she said. She reached over and tugged up Jacob's sleeve, and George's face fell as he carefully lifted up the boy's arm to see the multicolored bruises there. "He hurts him."

George stroked the bruises gingerly, as though struggling to process; then he seemed to recover himself and exhaled slowly, and his voice, once sorrowful, now filled with fire. "He won't hurt either of you ever again," he said, and Evie heard the barely-contained fury in his voice; he was almost shaking with rage at the realization that his best friend had done something like this. "I'll make sure of it." He rose from the bed. "Stay here, both of you. I'll be right back."

Evie watched fearfully as he left, then turned to Jacob, who was shaking badly, nearly paralyzed with fright; she wrapped her arms around him and hugged him, trying to comfort him. "It's okay," she said, as Jacob clung to her like a lifeline. "He'll protect us. He won't get to hurt you anymore."

"What if he tells him?" Jacob whispered. "What if he hurts us, too?"

"He won't hurt us. I know he won't."

They waited until George returned, and as he took their hands and walked them down the stairs, Evie suddenly realized that the snoring from their father's bedroom had stopped.

She clung to George's hand as he guided them gently outside and into his carriage, then went back inside; when he returned, he was carrying a box of their toys and belongings, which he packed into the trunk of the carriage. "Where are we going?" Evie asked, as George clambered into the seat across from them. She looked at Jacob, who was squished up against the wall of the carriage, trembling. "He's scared."

George softened as he looked at the boy. He took off his leather coat and draped it gently over Jacob, pulling the hood over his head. "It's okay," he murmured, as Jacob's eyes peered fearfully at him from under the hood. "I won't hurt you. Never, ever hurt you."

And as the carriage driver snapped the reins and carted them away into the night, Jacob softly crawled into George's arms, nestling against him like a frightened baby bird. George held him close, stroking his hair and murmuring gentle words. "No one will ever get to hurt you like that again," Evie heard him say, in a quiet, soothing voice. "Never again."

He held him all the way to the house, and after so much torment and torture, Jacob felt warm, protected and safe for the first time.

* * *

"So George adopted you," Henry realized. "He took care of you."

"Yes," Evie said. She looked at Jacob, who still had his face in his hands. "And he was the best father we ever had."

"And your back..." Henry said softly, understanding now why Jacob didn't like to take his shirt off. He had a sinking feeling that the doctor had seen not an ugly tattoo, but belt scars. No wonder Jacob didn't like to be touched.

Jacob blew out a breath, then rose from his chair and put his top hat back on, maintaining his composure. "Well, now you've heard the story," he said. "Don't go spreading it around, or I'll have my Rooks take your balls off." He left the cabin, and Henry heard the door of his compartment slam shut.

Evie looked at Henry, a bit worriedly. "He still gets emotional about it," she said. "Don't bother him about it, if you can. He doesn't tell that story very often."

"I wish I had known before I started needling him about the doctor," Henry admitted. "I won't do that anymore." He suddenly realized how much of Jacob's behavior this explained - the way he didn't like talking about his father, and had angry outbursts whenever someone brought the man up in conversation. The way he was so protective of his street children and bought them ice cream and candy, and taught them about stranger danger and not letting anyone hurt them. Henry's heart melted as he realized the true reason Jacob doted on children so much: because he was trying to protect them from what he'd had to go through.

He said nothing about the story the next day, and Jacob carefully avoided him for a while, pointedly not bringing it up; but then Henry noticed Jacob wincing, and asked tentatively, "Is your cut still hurting?"

"It's fine," Jacob said, avoiding his eyes. "Just stings a little. I think that damn doctor didn't bind it properly."

"I can fix it," Henry offered, knowing that Jacob was probably going to say no; he knew now why Jacob didn't like people seeing his back, but he figured he might as well give it a shot.

To his surprise, instead of saying no, Jacob grumbled and slouched down into a chair, unbuttoning his coat. "Just don't poke me too much," he said.

He held perfectly still as Henry carefully pulled off his dress shirt, and Henry looked silently at what he'd expected to find; all down Jacob's back were patterns of scars and lines, the remnants of what must have been painful, disfiguring wounds. He gingerly cleaned Jacob's cut and bandaged it properly, and helped Jacob put his shirt back on; and neither of them said a word. But it was in that moment that Henry realized Jacob, so slow to rely on anyone and wary of strangers, finally trusted him.

"You're not so bad, Greenie," Jacob said after a while, as they sat together watching London rattle by outside the train window. "We should get a drink sometime."

Henry smiled. "Only if you take me somewhere good. None of your British dishwater."

"Ha, ha." Jacob adjusted his top hat. "If anyone asks - I've got a badass jackdaw tattoo back there, to match my raven. But I don't like showing it off, because it'll make everyone else with tattoos feel bad."

That made Henry chuckle. "Agreed."

After that, it might have been his imagination, but Jacob seemed a little less wary around him than before. And every once in a while, when he was having a good day, he'd let Henry pat his shoulder or knock him playfully on the arm - just once, every now and then. It was a privilege he afforded to no one else, and even Evie noticed, remarking wryly that she hadn't seen Jacob let anyone touch him since getting his arm tattoo. But more importantly, Jacob finally relented and went to the doctor when he took a hit from a Blighter, and stalwartly brushed off the inevitable gasps and tentative questions that resulted. "Your mother gave them to me last night," he joked with a concerned surgeon, which earned him an extra-painful round of stitches.

It didn't matter, though, at least not to Henry. Because he knew that even after all this time, Jacob was still a little broken inside - and only now, after finally reliving the moments that had destroyed his childhood, was he finally beginning to let himself heal.

He could only hope that Jacob Frye, the mischievous, clever and intolerably smug Assassin who was slowly becoming his friend, wasn't shattered beyond repair.


	2. Evie

_A/N: It's been far too long since I've written here, but at last, here is a new chapter of one of my most favorited stories! I didn't realize people would love this little oneshot so much and I was overjoyed enough to decide to continue it. Please enjoy an overdue Part Two with my thanks! Love you guys. As for what this one is about, I figured it was time for some Angsty Feels... from a different perspective than Henry._

_(Obvious trigger warning for abuse again, of course. And strong language.)_

* * *

Jacob was having a spell again. Evie always knew the signs - for, despite his best efforts to be the mysterious gang leader who never wore his heart on his sleeve, she was his twin sister, and she could always see right through him. He'd been all right for a few weeks after his conversation with Henry, cracking beers, goofing around and telling his favorite jokes, going on missions and spending time with his Rooks, even sharing a few ales with Dickens and regaling Henry with tales from his adventures. But then he had started his ever-familiar pattern, the downward spiral she could predict like clockwork. It was the same thing every time, a cycle she had learned to the letter.

First he got quiet. Before he would stay up for hours laughing and sharing drinks with Ned, Henry and his Rooks; but now he spoke quietly and avoided everyone, and locked himself in his room and closed himself off, shutting the train windows and drinking in the wee hours of the night. He snapped at anybody who barged in or disrupted him, and banged on the train wall if someone was being too loud, like an irritated landlord with rowdy party guests. Evie always avoided having friends over during this part of the pattern, knowing it would only scrape even more at his fragile psyche. Her brother was tough and angry and hard to hurt, but he was delicate, too - so breakable, like glass.

Next he lashed out. He was no Maxwell Roth, violent and cruel; but he liked to break things when he got frustrated, and now he would take it out on any hapless Blighter, Templar or gang leader who crossed his path. Evie would hear stories from the Rooks about him tearing apart gang strongholds, breaking Templar bones and leaving them to bleed out all over London, taking as much territory for the Rooks as he could get his hands on, destroying labor factories left and right, and all of it, Evie suspected, was just to vent his feelings, to take it out on something besides himself. Evie would find twisted Templar corpses thrown into gutters and tossed into carriages during this part of the cycle, bloodied from brass knuckle strikes and cane blades. He would spare the thieves and lesser criminals sometimes, but he never bothered to bring the murderers in alive - which Evie couldn't help but agree with, sometimes. And the factories and workshops would always be left in shambles in his wake, with Rooks hastening to herd away the children he had freed. It was good, what he was doing, but it was still frightening to see her brother transformed like this, turning from a focused Assassin into an angry demon who raged across London like a storm.

Then, at the end, he fell into a place that Evie could not reach him. This was always the last step, and the hardest to overcome. This was the part where he barred himself in his room for days on end and didn't eat or sleep, and rebuffed every attempt to talk to him or coax him out, turned away every visitor and never spoke to anyone. When he got like this there was only one way to get him out, and Evie knew exactly what to do this time, when this spell came to its close and she found herself standing in front of his locked bedroom door again, just like all the other times, knocking and calling softly, "Jacob?"

There was a brief silence; then she heard the _click _of him locking the door again. "Go away," came his voice from the other side - cold, frigid, not at all filled with his usual warmth. It was an alien voice, one that could not possibly belong to her smiling, warm, cheery mess of a brother, and hearing it made Evie's heart drop into her shoes. He really wasn't okay. That voice was all she needed to hear.

Evie sighed and sat down in front of his bedroom door. "All right," she said. "We're doing this again."

Jacob was silent. Normally she would make fun of him for sulking, but this time there were no jokes. Evie knew better. She could tell what was really going on.

"What did it this time?" she asked.

His response came slowly, reluctantly, as though it was being pried out of him. "I was taking Black Swan Yard."

"And?"

"It was nothing," he said, but despite his lifetime of practice in lying and showmanship, he didn't sound the slightest bit convincing. "Just a stupid thing. I shouldn't have let it bother me."

"Tell me," she said.

There was another silence. Then she heard a soft shifting sound from the other side of the door, and knew that Jacob was sitting down. "I don't know why it keeps happening," he said, at length; and each word sounded like it was being dragged from the depths of his soul. "I thought it would go away."

"It won't unless you talk about it," she said. "You remember what Florence said."

He exhaled. "Fine," he said. "If I tell you about it, will you leave?"

"No promises," she said.

* * *

It should have been an easy mission. Piece of cake, really.

He always did the same thing every time, quick and efficient. Just walk in with his Rooks at his back, take the place, sweep out the stragglers, and burn whatever was left, just like they always did. And then maybe go out for drinks afterwards. It was a scenic place for it, too; it was named for the swans that gathered in the area and had their feathers tainted black with factory smoke, and had been taken over by Bloody Nora and the Blighters after it was left to rot - and here he was with his gang, ready to take it back. Perfect tavern story material.

He knew the Blighters were getting clever, after his last few schemes in this part of town. They had wised up to his usual tricks, and had learned to cover windows, board up holes in the walls, and post scouts with rifles on the rooftops, to dissuade him from sneak attacks. But he had come prepared. He brought six of his best men, and his favorite brass knuckles to finish the job. And the first scouts fell quickly, one bleeding out when he leapt onto him from the rafters and the other smothered to death by a Rook who moved too fast for her to see. Next Jacob seized the honor of killing the leader himself, slitting her throat so fast she barely had time to gurgle out a scream, and one by one the others fell as his gang dropped on the place and swarmed it like locusts, until only a few of the Blighter reinforcements were left, cowering in fear as his gangsters closed in. Jacob smirked to himself. He liked being in charge.

But as a Rook raised his gun to finish the job, Jacob had a sudden change of heart, and lifted a hand to stop him. "Let me talk to them," he said, and the Rook obediently holstered his gun and waved to the others to clear out. It was just Jacob now, staring down the three Blighters alone. It was stupid of him to do this, of course; no gang leader in his right mind ever walked alone into an enemy stronghold, not without backup. But he was making a point. He wanted them to see that he wasn't afraid of them - that he, Jacob Frye, was the king of the streets. He wanted them to know that he could draw his blade right here, right now, and take every last Blighter in London down by himself.

Two of them got the message, and backed away in fear. But one of the Blighters defiantly spat at his feet. "Going to kill us then, Frye?" he challenged. "Going to slit us up and hang us from the rafters? You think that'll scare Bloody Nora into giving this place up?"

"Yes," he said. "I think it will."

"You don't know her, then." The Blighter laughed. "Sorry sack of shit, aren't you? Acting like you're so big and brave, and then here you are, a mouthy little bitch in a top hat."

Normally Jacob would have laughed off such a slight, and shot back a few playful jabs of his own. Normally he would have even taken it in stride, and relayed it to his friends at the bar later, joking about his new nickname.

But today was not a normal day, and unfortunately for this Blighter, he had caught Jacob in a very nasty mood.

Jacob lunged. His brass knuckles caved in the Blighter's jaw and sent him reeling in a spray of blood, grabbing at his mouth and shouting in pain. The other two Blighters burst forth to defend him, and a second later it was a proper fight, Jacob beating one senseless with one hand and kicking down the insolent one into the dirt; enjoying himself now, he whirled just in time to take a hard left hook to the face, a hard blow that sent him stumbling back, clutching at his face and wincing in pain. Shit, that had hurt.

The Blighter who had delivered it laughed, clearly gaining some courage from having walloped the head of the Rooks. "How d'you like that, Frye?" she teased, and Jacob looked at her and suddenly it was as though his limbs had gone numb, and his mind turned to jelly. _No, no, not now, _he thought frantically, but it was too late - one moment he was staring at a Blighter and feeling a smarting from the pain in his face, and the next he was staring at his father, Ethan Frye alight with fury, fire in his eyes, brandishing the fireplace poker like a sword.

"Stupid boy," Ethan hissed, and then the vision ended abruptly with a fresh crack in the face, as another Blighter took a shot on his nose and Jacob yelled in pain and fell backwards, thrown back into reality as though dunked in icy water. Now the other Blighters were getting up and closing in, laughing, clearly relishing that the leader of the Rooks was lying helpless before them. One smacked his hand against his palm, grinning with delight, as Jacob struggled to return to the present and remember how to fight back. He had to get up, or they'd hit him again. But in his mind he was eight years old again and his father was lifting the poker to strike him again, burning bright in his mind's eye like a demon, and fear shot through him like cold ice, a deep and primal panic he could not control.

"No!" he screamed aloud, and as a Blighter reared to strike him again he lashed out without thinking, burying his blade up to the hilt in the Blighter's throat. The others shouted in terror, and turned and fled the scene as the dead man slumped over and fell to the ground, bleeding out on the cobblestones. But Jacob was in no state to care; he was trembling so badly he couldn't feel his fingers, stuck in the past and unable to shake himself free. He stared at the dead Blighter and forced himself to relax, to refocus on reality; he breathed slowly and counted to three in his mind, but when he was finished he still felt shaky and weak, like he needed to lie down, and the smell of blood wasn't helping.

He turned and walked stiffly away from the body, victorious but feeling sick to his stomach. He needed a strong drink, now, and -

"Jacob!"

He whirled. The urchin girl Clara O'Dea was approaching at top speed, dodging puddles as she came rushing to him. He gritted his teeth; now was not the time for another factory run. His fingers were still trembling, so badly that he didn't even think he could hold a kukri, and the floor felt like it could give way underneath him at any moment. It was definitely not a good day to be running off on any more Assassin missions.

"Clara," he managed, as she stopped before him and caught her breath. "I - I'm really not feeling up to -"

"There's another factory," she said breathlessly, and then she stopped, looked down at the body, and then returned her gaze to him. "Looks like you've been busy."

"Yes," he said, tightly; he pressed a hand to his face almost unconsciously, trying to block out the intrusive thoughts, the bad memories crowding his brain like angry traingoers. "Clara, now's really not the time -"

She stared at his other hand, which hung at his side, enclosed in his gauntlet. He followed her gaze, and saw that his hand, so steady in the assassinations from earlier, was shaking badly, making the metal of his Hidden Blade clatter; he thrust it into his coat pocket hastily. But Clara gazed at him with obvious worry. "Are you all right?" she asked. "You look pale."

Jacob screwed his eyes shut; the sunlight was suddenly blinding. "Clara," he said. "I'll take care of the factory tomorrow. I need to go back to the train."

"You look like you've seen a ghost," she said, uncertainly.

Yes, he thought grimly. He had.

Clara moved forward, hesitantly. He expected her to say something else, perhaps one of her signature jabs or little digs at his expense. But instead she solemnly took his hand in hers. "Come on," she said, and pulled him down the street; and he followed her on numb, shaky legs, no longer trusting himself to know where he was going. "I'll take you back to the train."

He let her lead him all the way to the station, still feeling shaky and unwell, but resigning himself now to what was going on. He felt deeply humiliated that his mind had chosen now, of all the times, to have one of his fits. Now the Blighters thought he was an invalid and Clara thought he was mad. Why couldn't he have just stayed in the train?

When they reached the train Clara let go of his hand, and looked up at him thoughtfully, appraising him; and he wondered how he must look, white as a sheet and quivering and still covered in blood from his brawl. "I'm all right," he said, unnecessarily, and knew she wouldn't believe it. "I'm fine. Really."

"Do you want me to get your sister?" she asked. "You don't seem like you're all right."

"No," he said tightly; all he wanted right now was to be alone. But as he stepped onto his train car, she said,

"You don't like being hit, do you?"

He wavered on the threshold for a moment. "I don't know what you mean," he said.

"The others talk about you," she said. "They say you freeze up like that when you get hit too much. Does that happen very often?"

He stared into the train for a while, trying to piece together how to respond. "Clara," he said. "There are some things children wouldn't understand."

"I understand that look in your eyes well enough," she said, and as always, despite being a little girl, she sounded entirely grown-up and matter-of-fact when she said, "That's the look some of my children have when they've been hit too much."

She was only a child, Jacob thought, and yet somehow in that moment he could not bring himself to look at her.

"Was it your father?" she asked.

"Yes," he said.

Clara O'Dea nodded, and did not look the slightest bit surprised. "Often?" she asked.

"Every day," he said.

"And your sister?"

Jacob felt a strange urge to cry. "I never let him touch her," he said.

"Good," she said.

He stared down at the train floor, his stomach twisting uncomfortably. "You won't tell anyone, will you?"

"No," she said. "What's there to tell?"

He didn't know what to say. He felt as though something poisonous had just been extracted from him, as though this small girl had reached into his soul and peeled back his layers of hurt to see the core of it all, and somehow the act of telling her made him feel much better than before.

"You're a good brother," she said. "I hope Evie knows that." She reached out and brushed his arm, the slightest touch; then she headed back through the crowd, and he watched her go, his stomach tying itself in knots. He had no idea what to think, except that Clara O'Dea was perhaps much wiser than he'd thought.

* * *

"Stupid Blighters were beating me up." To anyone else Jacob's voice would have sounded petulant, tremulous, like a child. But Evie knew her brother, and she knew what Jacob sounded like when he was trying not to cry. "I don't know what happened."

Now Evie understood why her brother was so upset. She touched the wood of the door, gingerly, as though somehow that would connect her to her brother, so lost from her sometimes. "Will you let me in?" she asked.

There was a long silence. Then, just when Evie was starting to lose hope, the lock on the door clicked, and the latch slid open.

Jacob sat on the floor beyond, purple-eyed and wild-haired with wrinkled clothes, the picture of misery. Clearly he hadn't been sleeping. He tried to crack a smile. "I know," he said. "Beautiful, right?"

"Jacob," Evie said, dismayed. "You should have told me it was getting like this."

He looked at himself and grimaced. "Yeah," he said, reluctantly. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry." Evie took his shoulder and pulled him gently to his feet. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up."

And, like all the other times he had broken down like this, it took her a long time to talk him into leaving his room, after he'd showered and put on some fresh clothes. He lingered uncertainly by the door for a while, staring nervously at the handle as though worried it might burn him, but when Evie opened it for him he hesitantly went out and into the main train car, where Henry was sitting at his desk moving papers around and Ned Wynert lounged on the couch with a fresh cup of Earl Grey. Both of them looked up at Jacob's arrival. "Hey, there's the hermit," Ned said. "Finally decided to get some sunlight?"

Evie shot him a warning look, trying to convey that now wasn't the time; she had no plans of telling Ned what her brother's strange moods were all about. Henry also took the hint. "Ned," he said. "Don't be rude."

"What? I was just worried if he stayed in there any longer he might take root in the floorboards." Ned grinned at Jacob, clearly expecting their usual banter. "Did your ego get popped and you had to spend a couple days reinflating it?"

And suddenly, to Evie's mixed amazement and relief, Jacob cracked a wide smile. "I figured if I hid in my room long enough, you'd get the hint and leave," he said, and Ned laughed, and just like that it was as though a switch had flipped. Ned offered him a drink, and he took it and plopped down merrily on the couch beside him to trade their familiar banter about Ned's love of trains and Jacob's affection for top hats, and Evie watched him shoot barbs and make fun of Henry's hair, and felt relieved that her brother was back, if only for a little while.

But of course, there were parts of her brother that he always kept to himself. That night, after returning some stolen goods to Bell's laboratory, Evie returned to the train and found her brother lying on the couch in his usual place, eyes half-closed, his top hat resting over his face.

"Everything all right?" she ventured, and he opened his eyes and lifted his hat to raise an eyebrow at her.

"I'm fine," he said. "You worry about me too much."

"Well, when you hole yourself up in your room for days and stop talking to me and drink heavily, you'll forgive me for being concerned." Evie nudged his legs aside so she could sit on the couch beside him, and he mock-grudgingly swung them down to the floor; she settled down on the cushion and studied him. "Jacob, it's all right to still be hurting. You know that."

"I'm not," he grumbled.

"You're acting like it." When he said nothing to deny it, Evie knew it was true. "You and I went through an incredibly traumatic experience. It doesn't matter that it was a long time ago. We need to work through it together. You can't keep shutting everybody out like this, or you'll just make yourself more miserable."

"How do you do it?" He looked at her with sudden intensity, a kind of quiet desperation for answers. "How do you stop yourself from thinking about it? Why are you so _okay?_"

"I don't know," she admitted. "I don't know why I'm okay. I guess I just don't think about it."

He studied her for a while, as though searching for something in her eyes. "I always used to worry," he said. "I used to worry that you'd have nightmares, too. That it was affecting you too."

Evie remembered the nightmares well. "I haven't had them in a long time," she said. "Not since George took us in. But they used to keep me up at night. I used to dream that I woke up and he had killed you while I was sleeping."

Jacob looked at her for a long time. "I would have killed him before I let him lay a finger on you," he said. "You know that, right?"

And this time it was Evie who felt like she wanted to cry. "I know," she said.

Jacob sighed and mashed one of Henry's embroidered pillows over his face. "I'll work on getting better," he said, his voice muffled in the fabric. "I'll try not to do all of the fighting anymore. Running off and doing stupid stuff. I have to learn to deal with it in a healthy way."

"Oh?" Evie shook her head fondly, recognizing that he was quoting Florence. "What would you consider _healthy?"_

"Quilting. Stationery. Flower collecting." Jacob took the pillow off his face and lobbed it at the wall, rolling his eyes. "I don't know. Maybe I'll take up knitting."

"That's not what I want," Evie said, although she had to admit that the mental image of Jacob trying to knit was oddly endearing. "You've got your ways of coping, and I won't stop you. If killing Templars and blowing up London is how you deal with it, then that's how you deal with it. I won't stop you. But I want to hear about it, when things like this happen again. I want you to talk to me, instead of just hiding yourself away. Okay?"

"Okay," he said, grudgingly.

"Good." Evie touched his shoulder gently, knowing how little her brother liked to be touched and remembering this was a rare privilege; to his credit, he did not flinch away from her, as he did with so many others who attempted to do the same. "I love you, Jacob."

"Yeah, yeah," he said, amusedly; but she knew what he really meant, even if it was hard for him to say it out loud. _I love you too._

And later that night, as Evie laid in bed pondering the enigma that was her brother, she realized something she had never noticed before. Jacob always told her stories from his day when he came back to the train, little harmless narratives of his adventures with Templars and Blighter strongholds. But never, not once, had he told her about having an attack until now, about his thoughts and feelings and nightmares and hauntings. He had never confided this much of his inner hurt, the turmoil of his demons, the lingering pain of his memories in her until now, and she felt a rush of emotion as she realized how much her brother, her favorite lovable moron, had trusted her.

_He's learning to talk about it, _she realized, with a rush of fondness. First to Henry, then to her. _Maybe he'll keep on doing it. Maybe this is a new step to getting better. For both of us._

She could only hope it wouldn't be the last.


	3. George

_A/N: Did I say this series was a oneshot? Oops. I accidentally wrote more. Enjoy lol_

_Usual content warnings for abuse, swearing, etc. But al__so, BIG WARNING for gore this chapter. I didn't intend to make a particular scene really gory, but it turned out really nasty and I felt like it was fitting to keep it that way (for reasons that will soon become clear), so just a heads-up if you're not good with that kind of thing. If you want to skip it, you'll probably see it coming, and just jump to the horizontal line under it when you do._

_Thanks for all the love, favorites and follows. It means a ton!_

* * *

George Westhouse had always looked up to Ethan Frye. The man had saved his life, after all, when he was jumped by robbers out by the mill and Ethan swooped in to tear them to shreds; that was how he'd been convinced to join the Assassins in the first place, to become part of something bigger than himself, and in that Ethan had always been his stalwart protector and mentor. To George, Ethan was a clever, intelligent and well-spoken man, full of wit and tidbits of Assassin history, always teaching George something new and telling him fascinating stories of his Assassin travels; and for many years, George had considered the man to be his closest and truest friend.

So when Ethan's ten-year-old daughter, Evie, had confessed that Ethan was abusing them, it had been the greatest shock of George's life. He could never have imagined that his friend would do something like this, but he could not deny the mottled purple bruises on Jacob's arms and the tears in Evie's eyes, and in that moment surprise and horror had given way to cold rage. He had risen from their bed and stalked into Ethan Frye's bedroom, Hidden Blade burning on his arm, ready for answers.

Ethan was still fast asleep when he entered. George shut the door, and then locked it and stuffed a towel under it for good measure, so as not to frighten the children in case things got ugly. Then, still burning with fury, he had stormed over to the bed and shaken Ethan awake. "Wake up," he snarled, as Ethan opened his eyes and blinked groggily at him. "You've got a lot of explaining to do."

"What?" Ethan said, blearily. "I don't -"

George seized him by the collar and slammed him back against the bedframe with a loud _crack_; Ethan yelled in pain and rage, and tried to fumble for his Hidden Blade, but he was too dazed from blood loss to snap the latch in time before George had pinned him to the bed, Hidden Blade drawn and pressed against his throat. "Answer me," George snarled, as Ethan struggled feebly against his grip. "What the fuck have you been doing to those kids? Why does Jacob have bruises?"

"I didn't mean to," Ethan slurred, weakly. "It was only a couple times."

"A _couple?" _George could barely contain himself; he could feel the anger building in his body, the urge to jam his Hidden Blade straight up his mentor's throat into his brain. But he resisted the temptation. He needed answers - he needed to understand what had happened to his best friend, the man he had thought so virtuous and untouchable. "What's wrong with you, Ethan? What happened to you? The Ethan I knew -"

"I never wanted kids." Ethan's voice was dull. "I never wanted the fucking kids. I tried to talk Cecily out of having them. But then she did, and now she's _dead." _He spat the word out. "And it's because of _them."_

George went cold inside. He stared into the flat eyes of his mentor, so hateful and angry, and finally understood the twisted chain of logic that had led this man to do such terrible things. He remembered the night that Cecily had died, how Cecily's mother had insisted that Ethan take the children despite him saying he didn't want them, that he couldn't even bring himself to look at them. _You'll learn to love them, _she had reassured him, and Ethan had certainly played along with the pretending, had kept up the illusion of loving his children for ten long years. But now the pretending was over, and George looked into those dead eyes of his best friend in the world, and realized he no longer recognized him.

"You could have given them up for adoption," he said, softly. "Or given them to me. I would have taken care of them. You didn't have to hurt them."

"Serves them right." Ethan sounded utterly unapologetic. "If I'd had the chance I would have done it earlier." He spat at the side of the bed. "If only I could have smothered them when they were born. Then I wouldn't have had to -"

George drove the blade straight up into Ethan's brain, deep into his neck, spurting arterial blood over his arms. Ethan uttered a ragged, hollow scream and jerked like he'd been shot, and George hastily clapped a hand over his lips to silence him, so he wouldn't frighten the children; and George stared into Ethan's eyes as he twitched, swore, clawed at George one last time, and died slowly and painfully in his arms, wanting to see every moment of it. He felt a strange need, an obligation to the old Ethan Frye he had once known, to watch the death of the monster he had become.

Then, feeling hollow and empty inside, he pulled the blade free from Ethan's skull, and Ethan slumped to the blood-soaked bed, dead. He wiped sticky grey brain matter off his blade, then went into the washroom to clean the blood from his hands, so the children wouldn't be afraid when he returned.

And that was the last time George Westhouse saw his friend, as he left the room and closed the door on him forever - broken, crumpled and dead in his own bed, a shell of what he had once been. _Rest in peace, old friend, _he thought. It was more than he deserved.

* * *

He never thought twice about taking the children home with him that night. There was nowhere else for them to go, after all, and he figured that if he could give them a better place to stay than the orphanage, at least for a little while until he could find a better arrangement for them, then that was the least he could do. And besides, he loved his little Fryes, and it broke his heart to think that the only father they had ever known had done such horrible things to them - all without his knowledge, all under his nose. And yet he still felt, in some way, responsible for not seeing it sooner.

And so the Frye twins became his - _temporarily, _he insisted to himself, still trying to convince himself that he would find a new home for them soon. But not even a week had passed before he had decided that his temporary solution was going to have to be permanent, because there was no way he was letting Jacob and Evie suffer alone in one of the dingy orphanages down the road, and because despite himself he already loved them. He wouldn't have had it any other way.

But first, he knew, he would have to get through to Jacob.

The first few days were the hardest. Evie was shy and anxious at first, always hiding from him and avoiding him whenever she could; but she wasn't really afraid of him, he soon learned, and sometimes she would run up to him unexpectedly and hug him fiercely, and bury her little head in his shirt, clearly seeking comfort. She loved when he told her all of his Assassin stories and gave her history lessons, and she reveled in exploring his house, always finding new spots and secret places with the thorough patience of an archaeologist on the hunt. She made friends with his housekeeper, Louise, and she loved running around the backyard and trying to balance herself on his flower boxes, practicing her Assassin footwork; and perhaps, George thought, it was the joy of finally being rescued, because it seemed that first week that Evie Frye was the happiest little girl in the world.

But Jacob... Jacob was a different story.

He had trusted him enough to hold him on the carriage ride home, but after that, it was as if George had publicly declared his alliance with the Templars. Every morning when he came in to wake up Evie with a good morning kiss, it was to find Jacob sitting protectively in the corner, watching him hawklike, as though to make sure George never laid a finger on his sister; and whenever George reached to touch his hair or reassure him Jacob would flee as though he'd been burned. He refused to eat or drink anything while George was around, as though terrified it would be taken away from him; but in the morning George would open the pantry to find he'd been raided overnight. Clearly the boy ate ravenously when he wasn't looking, because he would often find entire boxes and cans of food gone without a trace.

And he could have sworn, after a few days, that his belts were slowly going missing, too.

"He's scared," Louise told him softly, as George stood staring blankly at the empty spot in his closet where he was sure he'd just put a brand-new set. "He thinks you're going to hurt them, too. You mustn't blame him."

"I don't blame him." George closed the closet door, feeling an ache in his heart. "How do I get through to him? What do I do?"

"Well," Louise said gently, "you could start by telling him he can have food. Clearly he thinks he has to steal it to eat."

So George decided to try making a move on the pantry, before Jacob's appetite cleaned him out of house and home. That night he made Evie pork and beans for dinner, and then saved an extra plate and loaded it high with mashed potatoes and extra meat. Then, cautiously, he carried it up the stairs and left it outside Jacob's door with a fork and a napkin, as a kind of peace offering.

The plate was clean the next morning when he came back to get it, every crumb.

So he did it again. Over the next few days, he made bangers and mash, red potatoes, turkey sandwiches, pulled pork and kettle chips, everything that Evie told him was Jacob's favorite foods; and every night he would save a plate and leave it outside Jacob's door, and every morning it would be empty.

And then one night, on a whim, instead of leaving the plate outside, he knocked on the door instead. "Jacob," he called. "Can you open the door?"

There was a long silence. Then the door opened a crack, and Jacob's eye peered out, staring at him distrustfully.

George offered him a plate. "I made grilled cheese and green beans. I thought you might want some."

Jacob reached out, tentatively, and George gave him the food and watched as he sat down on his bed to eat it. Then, still testing his luck, George sat softly down beside him, noticing for the first time how thin he was.

"I won't hurt either of you," he said, and Jacob, who was wolfing down the grilled cheese like his life depended on it, looked up cautiously. "I won't lay a hand on Evie, or you. You have my word."

Jacob stared at his plate for a while. Then he spoke, a bit tentatively. "Sorry I took your stuff."

"It's okay." George reached out, tentatively, testing. Jacob flinched away at once. "It's okay," George soothed. "It's okay. I won't hurt you."

Jacob grimaced, but gingerly allowed George to stroke his hair; the fear in his eyes was palpable, and for the second time that day George felt his heart ache.

"Fathers are supposed to protect," George told him. "And that's what I'll do. I'll protect you. Both of you. Okay?"

Jacob's lip quivered; then, wordlessly, he leaned into George's chest, and George wrapped his arms around him, holding him tightly. And there they stayed for a long time, George stroking his hair and murmuring soothing words, relieved that Jacob had decided to trust him again.

* * *

And over the next few weeks, Jacob finally made his presence known in the house, no longer hiding in his room or lurking in the shadows; he showed up to dinner when he caught wind that George had made cookies for dessert, and George was so delighted that he gave him three extra helpings. He started to jump around on the outdoor furniture, just like Evie, and play Templars and Assassins with their toy soldiers. Sometimes George would be sitting in the living room and hear him plinking on the old grand piano in the parlor, with Louise guiding his fingers. "No, that's a C-sharp," she'd correct him gently, and he would try his best to keep up as she taught him Hot Cross Buns, Fur Elise and Turkey In The Straw. For the first time, George thought fondly, it felt like Jacob was finally beginning to relax, to realize he was safe here.

And finally, as George was sitting on the couch reading the newspaper, Jacob crawled up onto the cushion beside him, nimble as a jungle cat, and tugged on his sleeve. "George," he said.

"Yes?" George lowered his newspaper to show he was listening.

Jacob opened his mouth as though to say something, then shut it hastily, clearly nervous.

"What is it?" George coaxed. "Do you need something?" He was so delighted that Jacob was talking to him that in that moment he would have given him anything he wanted.

"Can you teach me Assassin stuff?" Jacob asked, tentatively. "Not the bad stuff. Like the cool stuff."

He was so young, George thought; and that was so much to ask. He didn't even know if they had the gift yet, if they had strong enough blood to see through walls or jump from buildings and land unharmed. But when Jacob looked at him beseechingly, with such tentative hope in his eyes, his heart melted. "Oh, all right," he said, and Jacob lit up like a Christmas tree. "What do you want me to teach you?"

"Teach me how to fight," Jacob said earnestly. "I want to learn how to fight."

George frowned. "That's a lot to ask," he said. "I don't know if you're old enough -"

"Yes I am!" Jacob said, impatiently. "Teach me."

"But Jacob - you have to understand what you're asking," George said, trying to impress upon him that he was going to teach him the art of dealing death; but it only seemed to frustrate Jacob, who started to get tears in his eyes.

"I want to be able to fight back," he said, with such desperation in his voice that George finally understood why he wanted to learn, and felt his heart break. "I want to fight back when people hit me. Teach me."

"Jacob," George said, softly. He reached to touch his hair, but Jacob pulled back as though stung.

"No!" Jacob hit his arm angrily, and George hastily yanked it back; it hadn't hurt him at all, only startled him, but Jacob froze the moment he did it, apparently realizing what he'd done. He looked at George with wide eyes, and scrambled to get off the couch and run away, clearly expecting to be punished.

"No, no, Jacob!" George tried to catch him, but Jacob fled upstairs. "Jacob, it's okay! You didn't hurt me!"

He reached the door of Jacob's bedroom just in time to hear Jacob jamming a chair up against the doorknob. George sighed, realizing the boy intended to sit in there and wait him out until he left.

"Jacob," he said, reassuringly. "I'm not mad at you. Let me in."

There was silence from the other side, but George could swear he heard sniffling.

"I'm not angry," George said. "In fact, I'm impressed. That was a good hit."

"I'm sorry," Jacob sniffled.

"Don't be sorry." George tapped gently on the keyhole. "That's exactly what I'm trying to teach you. Good form and everything."

He heard a tentative giggle from the other side. "No it wasn't," Jacob said. "That was terrible."

"Well, maybe I can give you some pointers," George said, playfully. "Can I come in now?"

There was a loud scraping sound as Jacob moved the chair, and then the door opened. Jacob stood there, smiling tentatively. "Teach me how to hit better," he said, and George laughed and lifted his hands, palms open.

"Come on," he goaded, and Jacob struck his palms once, then twice, and then a third time, gaining bravery each time. "Come on. Harder. You have to put your back into it."

Jacob looked at him fearfully, but when George gestured that it was all right he stepped into the next one and whacked George's palm hard, brass-knuckle style; he cringed back at once, clearly expecting a beating for the affront, but George laughed and told him he was doing great, and Jacob looked at him with utter relief, clearly realizing in that moment that he really was safe with him. He hit his hands a few more times, and then tried a whirling move he had learned from Evie, battering George's palms back with incredible force and agility for someone so young, and George was amazed and delighted at how natural he was at this, how easily it seemed to come to him.

"Harder," he encouraged. "Give me a good one. Come on."

"Rah!" Jacob yelled, punching hard into his left palm; that one actually knocked George off balance a bit, so fearsome was the strike. He marveled at the fact that this ten-year-old boy had just done what few trained adults could manage, and in that moment he looked at Jacob and saw the Assassin he would become someday in the set of those small shoulders and the fierce fire in his eyes.

"Excellent," he said, and held up his hands again. "Just like that. Do that again."

And that became how they trained, and as time went on George started to understand that this was how his son let off steam, that he really loved using his fists like this - that it made him feel powerful, able to take the world on, to combat the powerlessness of his childhood. So he bought him a punching bag, and then, when Jacob's constant whacking became too much for him to stand, he bought him some practice dummies, planted them in the backyard, gave him an old pair of brass knuckles and told him to go wild. He would often wander outside and find Jacob whaling on the dummies for hours on end, in the day and long into the night, fearsome and angry, face alight with fury; and sometimes he suspected who Jacob was seeing in those moments, whose face he was imagining on those straw-and-cloth heads.

And finally, when Jacob was old enough, George started to give him blades. First a small training dagger, then a proper cane with a sword tucked inside, one of his own favorites; and it seemed that the more Jacob trained with these, the more his confidence came back. He loved boastfully showing off his talents to Evie, who would indulgently smile and clap whenever he perfected a new move or sliced the heads off his training dummies. And on the day George handed him his first Hidden Blade on his sixteenth birthday, he glowed with joy as George carefully strapped it onto his arm, clearly eager to prove himself once he was given the rank of Initiate in a few years.

"You're not going to go on any missions yet," George said; that, he knew, would wait until they were twenty-one. "But for now, I'm giving it to you to train with, so you're ready when that day comes. I'm trusting you to be responsible with it and to take good care of it until then. Do you understand?"

"I understand," Jacob said, more solemn than George had ever seen him.

"Be very, very careful with it, and don't ever let an enemy take it from you, especially not a Templar," George went on, adjusting the fit and tightening the buckles around his wrist. "This is an ancient and dangerous weapon, and it will take a lot of practice before you fully understand how it works. If you're not careful with the mechanism, it'll slice your finger off."

"I'll be careful," Jacob said, clearly understanding the importance of this moment. "I won't let you down. I promise."

George looked at him, and in that moment he realized how much his son had grown. "I know," he said.

* * *

It was funny, how quickly the years went by. It seemed like hardly a blink, and suddenly he was standing in the trainyard in Croydon, speaking over his shoulder. "Think you both can handle it?"

And the response he'd been expecting came not from behind, but from above. "What a question."

He whirled, and there were his twins, grinning fiendishly from atop the train car beside him. "Oh, right, my mistake!" he said, too amused to scold them. "Ladies and gentlemen, the unstoppable Frye twins. See them nightly at Covent Garden!"

Jacob laughed. "Keep up, old man," he said, and Evie extended a hand to help him up; George grabbed it and clambered up with them, grumbling about being too old for this kind of thing. But he couldn't help smiling at how proud and eager Jacob looked, his eyes alight with excitement; he was ready for his first mission, and so was Evie, her eyes already turned to the horizon to watch the approaching train.

"George, honestly," Evie said, with a fond glance back in his direction; clearly she had already anticipated what he was going to say. "I've studied the plans of the laboratory and have every route covered."

"And I've got all I need right here," Jacob smirked, unsheathing his Hidden Blade with a fierce _snick _for emphasis. George sighed, mock-exasperated with his children's antics.

"Of course," he said, and then, to his utter amazement, Jacob reached out and patted him gently on the shoulder.

"Chat later, Dad," he said, warmly. "We've a train to catch."

And George could not help smiling as he watched his twins race towards the oncoming train and leap nimbly aboard. "Jacob!" he shouted, pretending to scold them. "Evie!"

"What?" Jacob called back, laughing. "We're just taking the express route!"

George waved a dismissive hand, chuckling. "May the Creed guide you, you vagrants!" he shouted at their receding backs, knowing they would hear him.

And later in the day, he returned to find them both sitting at their designated spot behind the steel warehouse and waiting for him, looking very sheepish. He sighed. "What went wrong this time?" he asked.

Evie sucked in a breath and turned to face him, obviously knowing they were in for a scolding. "There was a slight complication," she said.

"How slight?" he said, severely.

"The lab exploded," Jacob offered, helpfully. Evie shot him a furious look.

"_Jacob," _she hissed, but George said flatly,

"You derailed a train."

"Oh!" Evie said, feigning shock. "He did, did he?"

"Well," Jacob grumbled, "the train derailed and I happened to be on it. But I killed my target."

"Brewster is also no more," Evie put in.

"Then all in all a successful mission," George said wearily, "in spite of you two." He gestured to Evie. "I'll talk to you about the lab in a moment. I'd like a word with Jacob first."

"Yes, sir," Evie said, and bowed off, leaving George alone with Jacob, who stared at him dolefully, clearly expecting another lecture about responsibility and staying on task.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"For the train?" George settled down beside him, looking at him thoughtfully. "I don't care about the train. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. It's hard, the first time you kill a man."

Jacob stared at his boots, saying nothing.

"I know it still bothers you," George said. "You still have the nightmares. I didn't want to force you to do this if you weren't ready for it."

"I was ready," Jacob said, quietly. "I didn't hesitate."

"Good." George reached out, tentatively, and laid a hand on his son's shoulder; when Jacob did not move to stop him, he left it there. "I'm proud of you, son."

Jacob managed to smile at that. "Always have to be the softie, don't you." But there was still a strange note in his voice that made George worried, and he knew something was bothering his son. He could always tell.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

Jacob picked at one of the gears on his Hidden Blade. "That night you took us home with you," he said, and George softened at the memory. "Did you kill him?"

George hesitated, and knew he had no choice but to tell him the truth. "Will you hate me if you know the answer?"

"No," Jacob said, looking up. "Tell me."

"Yes," George said. "I killed him."

Jacob nodded; clearly he'd been expecting this. "I hope he suffered," he said, simply. It was such a small thing to say, and yet George knew what was behind those words, and knew how much pain Jacob had been through to wish a death like that on anyone.

"You'll be all right," George said. He touched his son's face gently, the scar on his eyebrow from when Ethan Frye had gotten a little too rough. "You'll always have the scars. But the wounds will heal."

Jacob looked at his boots. "I love you, Dad," he said.

And at that, George didn't know what to say. In the eleven long years since he'd taken him in, his son had never told him that before. He had said _thank you _and _please, _but never had he said he loved him.

"To hell with you, Jacob," he said, fondly. "How can I be mad at you now?"

"It was my plan all along," Jacob grinned, clearly trying to play it off as a joke, but George could sense the relief in his voice, and knew he had meant it. "Are you going to go scold Evie now?"

"I'm not going to scold either of you," George said, rising to dust off his Assassin robes. "Although I do wish you had both been a little more subtle."

"Well, you know us," Jacob smirked. "Subtlety isn't really our specialty."

* * *

The weeks passed. George got letters from Evie every few days, telling him about their conquest of London and new landmarks in their journey. He noted with amused suspicion that her letters started to mention Henry more and more as time went on. _Looks like she's taken a liking to him,_ he thought, when one letter went on and on about Henry's findings and archaeological discoveries in gushing detail. He'd imagined they would get along.

But the letters didn't focus on Jacob much - she would just toss in an occasional note about his progress in taking over the districts of London, or a little jab at his expense. Apparently he'd started a street gang called the Rooks, which did sound very much like something he would do, but beyond that George had no information to go on. He had no idea how his son was doing, and after a while it began to gnaw at him. He wondered if he should pay them a visit, just to make sure Jacob was doing all right.

_Am I hovering? _he wondered that night, as he hopped on a train bound for London and soon found himself stepping into the Fryes' train as it was stopped in Waterloo Station the next morning. He worried that they would think he was an intruder, but when he entered the lounge car and saw his son lounging on the couch, and Jacob lit up at the sight of him and sat up like a shot, he knew with a warm glow that he was welcome. "George," Jacob said, amazement in his voice. "You came by?"

"Just thought I would pay you two a visit." George settled down on a chair, and Jacob hastened to fetch him a glass and pour him a drink. "How have you been, Jacob?"

"Oh, splendid," Jacob said, earnestly. "I've taken over four districts of London now, and the Rooks are spreading like wildfire. We've almost got Starrick cornered."

"Good. I'm glad." George smiled at his son, loving the twinkle in his eyes. "I was hoping you would enjoy London."

"Well, it does have plenty of Templars for me to kill." Jacob winked. "So I'd say I'm enjoying it just fine."

"Of course." George took a drink, and then ventured to ask, "And you've been feeling all right?"

Jacob hesitated. "I had an - an episode a few weeks back," he said at last, reluctantly; and George's heart dropped. "But it was all right. Clara got me home, and Evie got me through it. And I've been doing fine now."

"You should have told me." George looked at him meaningfully. "Which reminds me, why is it always _Evie _who writes to me these days? Why haven't you written me anything?"

"Well," Jacob hastened to explain, "there was, ah - a shortage of stationery. And the paper store was closed. And I ran out of ink."

"Is that so." George sighed fondly. "Well, why don't you write to me sometime. I always look for your letters. I want to hear that you're doing okay."

"You know I'm fine, Dad," Jacob said, looking sheepishly at his boots. "I always am."

"Tell me you're okay anyway," George said. "Even if that's all you write in the letter. It'll make your old man feel better."

And sure enough, he got a slightly scuffed-up and wrinkled letter in the mail a few days later. He knew it was Jacob's because Evie always had beautiful, looping handwriting, but Jacob's was a bit less legible, and the address scribbled on the front was barely recognizable as English. Still, the sentiment of the carefully pressed seal and the little, hand-picked London stamp in the corner was clear, and the message inside, while brief, warmed his heart.

_Doing okay today. - Jake_

And down at the bottom, a little postscript, those simple words that meant so much to George Westhouse, who had gone through hell and back for his Frye twins and knew they had done the same.

_P.S. I love you, Dad._


End file.
